


Immortality's Late Love

by aph_foreign_relations



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Tumblr: usukustwiceperyear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aph_foreign_relations/pseuds/aph_foreign_relations
Summary: In a world where humans, creatures and monsters coexist in one society, two immortal beings find comfort in one another. Arthur is a Pixie who has arrived at his own dismal conclusions as to the value of his own existence. Ever since, he has dedicated his lonely life to making it less so, going through the motions with a loosely crafted goal. Alfred is a Vampire that, due to past trauma, isn't real stoked about the whole blood drinking business. This lack of self preservation could result in a more conventional form of expiration for this creature of the undead if not dealt with swiftly.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

The Siren’s Pearl was often busy on Friday nights. It was a middle class bar establishment with leather furniture, dim lighting, and smooth jazz music that generated an amicable atmosphere among all species. Local bands were invited to play weekend nights with free drinks and good tip. 

The place was owned by the Beilschmidts, Werewolves of German descent. The younger brother, Ludwig, was an organized man in charge of the staff and scheduling. Gilbert, the elder of the two, was the bartender. He was chatty but good at reading his customers and knew when to give them space.

Feliciano, Ludwig’s fiancée, was a Pixie who insisted that the place had a food menu. Therefore, the bar also catered to larger events. The Siren’s Pearl was well-known for its fine North-Italian cuisine, with pasta and traditional pizza galore. However, many people went for their simple cheese fries, provided by a grudging Italian who protested the culinary abuse of potatoes.

In Gilbert’s extensive experience, the fries were a common cure for heartache (and more often than not accompanied by a few dozen shots of hard liquor).

And so, Friday night that it was, business was flourishing. Regulars and first-comers alike drank and ate and spoke of their day, catching up on the events of their lives. Most patrons tonight were of the business type, decked out in their suit jackets, khakis, skirts and blouses. 

Gilbert quietly observed two female Vampires sitting at the right of his bar gossiping cruelly about their colleague. “Julia”, a “whore”, would likely be divorced by her “fifth wife” by the years’ end. Maybe Gilbert’s sources were biased, but this Julia did sound like a bit of an overweening jerk. If she couldn’t meet the deadline for her client, she really ought to have informed her manager. Now, according to the blond Vampire, their entire branch was forced to work overtime. The brunette beside her scoffed into her glass of blood, “And she had the audacity to blame her PA! Has that woman no shame?”

Gilbert was about to rudely join the conversation when the tiny bell attached to the entrance jingled merrily and two of his favorite customers walked in, hanging their coats on the wooden pegs lining the entry wall.

Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland had been dating for four years now. The Siren’s Pearl was their usual date spot. Francis had been frequenting the Siren’s Pearl since his manufacture release. He was an Android of rustic design and flirty AP. He had full wavy blond hair and permanent stubble doting his chin. He had originally been programmed as a Frenchman but instead been stationed in the U.S. where he was discarded by his buyer and left to live a life of his own free will.

Arthur was a Pixie, alive since the Century Wars. No-one knew his exact age, but he was ancient. He was shorter than Francis but made up for it with his aggressive nature, never one to back down in the face of anyone who thought themselves superior and in the position to look down upon him. He had short straw-blond hair that never seemed to have met a comb and a pair of prominent eyebrows that, despite consistent pleads from various individuals, had never been groomed.

Roderich, an old family friend and employee, greeted them warmly. The Austrian made a note on his tablet before walking them over to a secluded red booth with a papier-mâché lamp overhanging. With a few words of pleasantry Roderich departed, not bothering to ask their usual orders before disappearing into the kitchen.

Already knowing their drinks of choice, Gilbert went ahead and readied a tumbler of gin and a glass of their most popular Californian white. Blondie and Brunette had switched to more pleasant topics, instead conversing their pets and gushing over the apparent impossible existence with how “freaking fluffy and soft” the brunette’s Animatronic Pomeranian was.

Once the drinks had been fixed Gilbert had the brilliant idea to pop over to say hello.

He placed the drinks on a tray and maneuvered himself towards the seating area, using his hip to nudge open the small door attached to the bar.

As he neared the pair, he noted that Francis was not in one of his charming, charismatic moods. No, rather he appeared quite ill at ease, his thumbs twiddling in his lap and his eyes bouncing around the room, never quite landing on Arthur.  
Observing this odd behavior but not feeling overly concerned by it, Gilbert clapped a startled Arthur on the shoulder and earned himself an indignant squawk.

“What’s the occasion, my love birdies?” Gilbert walked around the Pixie and placed the spirits on the table, tucking the empty tray beneath his arm. The respective owners drew their glasses close.

“Francis has yet to inform me,” Arthur mumbled testily, taking a sip. His right shoe was tapping insistently upon the floor and his gaze was hard, impatience evident.

Francis coughed nervously, swallowing a generous mouthful of wine and settling his glass down forcefully, the gesture lacking his usual grace. “All shall be apparent in due time.” The Android checked his watch and released a shaky sigh, “How long does it take your kitchen to make a salad? Mon dieu.”

This conduct of Francis was certainly peculiar, thought Gilbert. Maybe he had extra work tonight? Gilbert had never seen such avoidant behavior.

Gilbert sensed that his presence was not particularly welcome and decided to excuse himself, “Alright then, my babes, I’ll leave you to it.” He booped Arthur on the nose and sauntered back to his spot overlooking the crowd behind the bar, pouring himself a glass of water (because Ludwig was not awesome and prohibited staff drinking during work hours).

Another booth located at the opposite corner from Arthur and Francis hosted two men dressed casually, kindly dismissing Elizabeta, Roderiche’s wife and employee, after she’d taken their orders. One was a tall fellow with ashy hair, broad shoulders, and a rather large nose. He wore a form-fitting black polo shirt and tan khakis, a steel blue Rolex glimmering on his right wrist. From the patch of rotting skin festering on his left hand and his abnormally grey colouring you could deduce that he was undead. His   
expression was blank as they listened to their dinner partner.

His friend, also tall but not unnaturally so, had a very attractive face. He wore dark glasses atop clear blue eyes and had a singular cowlick poking out from his right-sided part, seemingly defying the laws of gravity. The man sported a red flannel shirt and owned a willowy-looking pair of arms that he utilized as he chatted excitedly, throwing them out to demonstrate the exact amount of awesomeness his conversation subject possessed. The bloodless hue of his cheeks and white fangs visible through his large smile indicated that he was a vampire.

Gilbert went through his vast memory of patrons and concluded that these people were new.

Not all that intrigued by the pair Gilbert resumed his duties, talking with a regular sitting at his bar while he shook up cocktails, unaware of the grand turn of events that were to take place this evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur sighed into his glass on the bar table, watching the ice swim with the amber brandy. The easy lighting gave the half-melted cubes dimension and the ice clinked prettily against the glass as Arthur flicked the edge, listless.

His dejected body language expressed his low spirits, his own pity party evident for any observer. He was on his sure way to getting smashed and couldn’t muster the energy to care one bit. In fact, He felt quite entitled to the oblivion provided by the haze of drink. 

His tie had been loosened at the hold and his collar undid. His sleeves had been rolled to his elbows, the faded scars along his forearms on full display.

Thinking back, Arthur really oughtn’t be surprised. He’d known this moment was coming. He just hadn’t imagined it would be quite so near. He’d long since recognized that his and Francis’ personalities were incompatible for any long lasting connection and had, as of the last few months, sensed the Android’s uneasiness whenever they met up.

He’d been through this process a thousand times before and, in preparation for the inevitable, had begun emotionally distancing himself from Francis. Upon deeper contemplation this course of action may have furthered the rift.

Regardless, the breakup was still disappointing. Their relationship had been long and Arthur knew he’d miss Francis dearly come morning, when he awoke with only his cat and destined hangover, forced to nurse himself and process the evening’s developments. In times like these, when he felt undesired and unloved, he deeply resented his species' immortality. He felt so utterly exhausted, as though his efforts amounted to nothing in the long run.

This, of course, was logically correct. You cannot exist for as long as Arthur had without being aware that the actions of one being had little to no impact on the progression of history. He had long since committed himself to assuring his own pleasures in life rather than worrying needlessly over the ineffectuality of his existence.

Among the many pleasures Arthur prioritized, his social life was certainly one. He had once gone centuries unattached and had since concluded that, despite his anti-social tendencies, his own thoughts were not the most comforting of companions and that in order to retain some sense of sanity in his mundane life there was a crucial necessity for regular social interaction.

Francis had been his lover for over four years and, while they had never shared permanent residence, their chemistry had been intense.

[Their final conversation had been along these lines:

Francis: “Arthur, you’re boring and old. You are too scarred for a fresh, sprightly soul such as my own. Hence, I break it off because you suck, spiritually and in actuality.”

Arthur: “Whatever, cyber-frog. I don’t care. It’s not like we spent the last four years lovingly snogging or whatever.”

Francis: “Then begone, THOT!”

At least, that was the simplified version. The actual thing went more like this:

They were early into their meal, neither of them speaking. That is, until the frog decided (wrongly) that his (not) romantically communicated time for “It’s not you, it’s... oh wait” had come. The fucking prick.

Francis twirled his fork, expression downcast, “Your heart shows abuse even if your body cannot, Arthur.”

Arthur started, looking up form where he was poking at his broccoli. “What the hell does that mean? You can’t just spring that on someone; has one of your wires dislodged or something?”

Francis winced, his beautiful face briefly creasing. Arthur preferred when that happened during sexy times, but now may not be the moment to be fantasizing about shagging Francis’ gorgeous ass.

Arthur set his utensils down to glare at his dinner partner. The moment had arrived then. Well, he wasn’t going down easily; acctivate: Bitch-Arthur Mode. Anyone, Arthr was sure, would be surprised by the number of promising relationships he’d demolished using this superb mindset.

Francis brought a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat and visibly gathering courage.

“I-I’ve been thinking, mon cher,” he dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin, “ I don’t think this arrangement is working out, for either of us.”

The Pixie jumped, slamming his palms on the table and drawing alarmed looks from the other customers, “W-what? I-I haven't a clue what you're insinuating, Francis,” (He knew. But, he was petty.) ”but you’d better finish this damn thought before I %^*%!”  
Who knew what he’d actually said. But it was certainly nastly if the reaction garnered from Francis was anything to go by.

Francis looked around him and buried his head between his shoulders, embarrassed to be seen with Arthur and his uncivil manners. The pretty golden locks framing his face formed something of a curtain, hinding much of the Frenchman’s expression.  
They shared a moment of silent tension.

“This is precisely what I’m insinuating, Arthur.” Francis bit out. His face whipped up, steel-blue eyes were hard as they reflected the light of the room, “You’re so insecure of your worth, mon cher, of your worth to others, yourself, and to me.”

Francis’ face softened and he made a move to grasp Arthur's hand; it was jerked away. He sighed, “I cannot, in all good mind, be with someone who’s doubting my affections, who sees no value in life apart from the continuance of it. Cher Arthur, you live simply because you feel obligated to.”

“How dare you,” Arthur hissed (because, while Francis may have been absolutely correct, he also felt obligated to have the last word. He was petty, no shame in admittance). “What would you know?” Francis made a face at the childish comeback, “You’re practically a babe compared to me!”

Francis rolled his eyes up, perhaps begging the Lord for a scrape of patience to deal with Arthur’s inane, defensive attitude. “Mon dieu! How did this work for four whole years? I’m at my wit's end!”

Then, in a show of unabridged done-ness, Francis tore the silver ring (that Arthur had bought him as a third year anniversary gift) from his finger, ripped $200 cash from his wallet, and slammed the lot on the table.

”It seems I’ve misplaced my appetite. Au revoir, cher Arthur. I wish you the best of luck in your next conquest.”

And with that Francis left, kissing Gilbert and Roderich on the cheek before shrugging into his coat and exiting the building with his usual attractive flare.]

Not wishing to think further on the conclusion of their relationship and thereby darken his already black mood, Arthur idly swirled his glass, then downed half the contents, relishing the fiery burn that remained even as the contents found his stomach.

Gilbert, preoccupied with his bartending, shot him sympathetic looks every now and then. Arthur sincerely held the belief that he maintained an acceptable amount of self pity and that any outside compassion was inessential, however his decided mood of depression prevented the voicing of this sure deliberation.

Still pondering the recent state of solitude he found himself in, the barstool beside him scraped against the floor as it was pulled back. Arthur cocked his head to the side, not overly curious but admittedly bored with nothing but his thoughts and liquid poison in which to engage in his sorrows.

Glancing downward a pair of thin, long legs greeted his eyes, emphasized by blue jeans that hugged subtle calves and slim ankles. The man to whom these legs belonged appeared ignorant to Arthur’s presence and waved Gilbert over, who had just served a pair of young ladies.

Elbows settled on the bar displayed pale, sinewy forearms. Attached to delicate wrists were thin hands, long and with neat nails. The tendons were highly visible as the pointed index lazily skimmed the menu.

The voice was long and tired-sounding, but rang soft and deep, “I’ll get an order of cheese fries and ...let’s go with vodka on the rocks, why the hell not.” 

Gilbert nodded knowingly, noting the food order and passing the sheet through the window that connected to the kitchen, turning to fix the man’s drink.

Taking the glass gratefully from Gilbert’s hands the man took a tentative sip, then sat the glass down with a heavy sigh.

A dismayed cry of “Le mie povere patate!” came from the kitchens. Ludwig politely excused himself from two guests before power-walking his way towards his distressed Italian, knowing the likely culprit.

A buzz sounded from the man’s back pocket and he dug his phone out. Arthur raised an impressive eyebrow when, instead of reading the notification, the device was powered off and tucked away.

At Arthur's pointed (and ill-mannered) look the man seemed to notice him, instantly fixing his slumped posture and producing a meagre, forced smile, the tips of white fangs lightly denting his bottom lip. Rather cutely, Arthur thought.

Waving a hand dismissively, the man offered an explanation, “I know who it's from,” he peered down into his glass, “we’re not on great terms at the moment.”

Arthur nodded, lightheaded enough not to be bothered by his intrusive behavior, “Ah, yes; understandable. I find myself in something of a similar situation.” He made a broad gesture at himself, proposing many self-explanatory points:

1) He was alone on a Friday work night.

2) He was moping alone on a Friday work night while drinking.

3) He looked like a fuckin’ loser, drinking alone on a Friday work night.

4) Did he mention that he was alone?

The man smiled a real smile at Arthur’s self-deprecating humor, coming to terms with his impromptu sulking buddy. He respectively ran his eyes over Arthur’s attire.

Arthur took the incentive to observe the man in kind, instantly cataloging the unhealthy thinness of his frame and the porcelain features of his face, straying on the wire-rimmed lenses perched upon a straight-edged nose, thinking how well they suited him.

Once the appropriate period for observing had passed Arthur dropped his gaze to the table, raising his glass to cradle in his left palm. He was glad to have found himself a bit of company, if only for outside appearances.

A pale hand appeared in his peripheral vision, proffering a formal introduction. Arthur met the man’s eyes, grasping the hand and finding it deathly cold. It was still a comfortable temperature for a Pixie, for they generated a lower heat than most living creatures.

“Name’s Alfred, Alfred Jones.”

“Arthur Kirkland. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones.”

Jones scoffed in jest at the silly redundancy of social etiquette, sighing dramatically he swept out an elegant hand, “Alfred, if you would.”

Arthur smirked, squeezing their clasped hands before dropping his and settling his palm on the barstool, “Arthur, then.”

They sat in comfortable silence interrupted only by the clinks of silverware and pleasant buzz of background conversations.

It was always difficult to gauge a person’s age, especially if they were of the immortal types. There were very few clues. Of course, scars and similar blemishes indicated Century War times, for most every able-bodied being was required to give service.

Another hint, for likes of the decomposing undead, was the state of deterioration their forms had reached, or if they’d had skin transplants. The grey undertone of Zombie skin had no fresh match and so skin transplants made the exterior something of a well-defined ragdoll with no one skin color. A posture may also speak to age, though this was easily misleading as any Android could be programmed to default into any such poise.

But, in Arthur’s experience, which was rather extensive, the best tell-tale sign was the eyes. ”Windows into the soul”, they were said to be. The Pixie felt this an accurate description, for that is indeed what they are. You want to know someone’s story? Look no further then the two organs subjected to all sights horrific, joyful, and grand alike.

Arthur had been informed by numerous people he had a rather piercing stare. This was not unusual among Pixies for, depending on their knowledge of the magical arts, their eyes were known to illuminate in the night. This was especially prevalent with Forest Pixies with their green irises and natural night vision.

Of course, Forest Pixies were practically extinct. The battles of the Century Wars, fought on Forest soil, had decimated their habitat and killed off a majority of the creatures.   
But, Alfred’s eyes were very peculiar. They were an odd mix between coal, cobalt, and azure.

All vampires, like Forest Pixies, had night vision. However, unlike Pixies, Vampires were dead. And because of their nature their strength depended solely on the regular consumption of Human blood. It was not unheard of for Vampires to repress the urges for sustenance for extended periods of time and, if starved for too long, was the leading cause of permanent death. 

The hungrier a Vampire was, the brighter their eyes. This, from a survival standpoint dating pre-Century Wars, was to better hone their senses and made it easier to hunt their Human prey. Now Humans were required to donate monthly blood in order to avoid Vampire starvation, Human assault and murder, and safe, cautionary relations between species.

The point of this was that Alfred’s eyes were very bright indeed. They weren’t necessarily unnerving for the face was kind and the expression open, but they were quite literally glowing. His sharp (too sharp) cheekbones were highlighted from their blue-lighted hue and his blond eyelashes, long enough that they brushed his lenses, appeared cerulean at the tips.

Alfred, evidently having noticed the Pixie’s attentions, cocked his head towards him, a devilish smirk curling his mouth, “Like what you see?” He puffed out his chest and tipped his head back, exposing his neck and maintaining an expression of empty-headed, model-like beauty.

Alfred nudged Arthur's shoe beneath the bar and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Arthur rolled his eyes and kicked out a leg, licking his lips and peered at Alfred with a sultry gaze over his glass in a mockery of flirtation, “Why, Alfred, is that an invitation?”

The Vampire laughed, the sound childish, smooth and deep all at once. It rolled off his tongue and made Arthur internally shiver, his old heart skipping a beat. Not at all opposed to the feeling Arthur dropped the charade and smiled, feeling the atmosphere between them lighten with the knowledge of compatible humor.

Alfred regained his open position over his drink, the elbow resting on the bar.

“So,” began Alfred, white fangs catching the light, “What’s a man like you doin’ inna place like this?”

The “alone” was implied.

“Same as you, I presume. Coping with the loss of their love.”

Alfred clucked his tongue, leaning back,” Well, I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘love’. It really wasn’t too serious. But, yeah, it does still suck.”  
“It does,” Arthur agreed.

“‘Scuse me, gents,” Gilbert intoned, sliding a bowl of cheese fries between them. He gave Arthur a wink and thumbs up sign, presumably for good luck with his new acquaintance, and resumed his duties.  
Alfred made an open palmed gesture to indicate that Arthur was free to the fries.

Arthur picked two up and placed them in his mouth. He hummed appreciatively at the taste, “Oh, these are good.”

“Are they?” Alfred took one for himself and chewed thoughtfully. After swallowing, he spoke, “Oh yeah, these are great!”

The seving was generous and they sat for a while talking and learning about each other. Alfred, it turned out, worked in NASA’s radio communications.  
Arthur himself was an editor of historical literature and part-time life counselor. 

“Where the hell do you find any freetime, man?”

What could he say? He liked being busy.

Alfred was hesitant to share his age but did mention that he had been born to a Native American mother and English father from the Roanoke Colony. His father had died soon after his birth.  
So, thought Arthur, that put Alfred here at about 435 years old. He had been alive during the Century Wars.

Alfred appeared uncomfortable with the topic of his early life, and so Arthur shared some of his history:

He’d had three brothers who were dead (permanently), he never knew his mother for she had died in childbirth and his father, Sir Arthur Pendragon, had died protecting Britain in the Sixth Century (but they had never been close as he had duties of the Empire to attend to).

He was approximately five thousand years old (Alfred had whistled), had no kids, had married once (oh, dear Elizabeth), and been a captain in the II Century War.

“Wow,” Alfred said, his bright eyes wide with amazement as Arthur finished his life’s summary.

He shoved a forkful of cheese fries in his face and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ya’know, Artie, I think you may be the oldest person I’ve ever met! I’m feeling a bit insignificant here, but I forgive you.”

Arthur cringed at the nickname, “Please, don’t ever call me that again. I think I might actually have to drive a stake through your chest if you do.”

Alfred laughed, finishing his drink. “Yeah, well I- Oh Shit! The time!” He flicked his watch. He slapped a $50 on the bar, more than enough to cover both their orders, and turned to Arthur, “I’ve gotta go, man! Do ya wanna do this again? It was fun.”

Startled by the sudden movement, Arthur was late to wrap his arm around Alfred’s shoulder when he was hugged, “Yes! Yes, of course.” He reached into his breast pocket when Alfred released him, making agitated I’ve-got-to-go-like-right-frickin’-now gestures. 

He handed the business card to Alfred, “That’s all my contact info.”

Alfred nodded hurriedly before turning to leave, throwing a smile over his shoulder. 

Arthur yelled after him, “Feel free to text or call, Alfred!”

When the restaurant door closed Arthur took a deep breath, smiling to himself. He hoped Alfred would contact him, he felt they got along quite well. And if breaking it off with Francis was what it took to meet an exuberant ball of energy like Alfred, then that was a damn good deal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T

Lady Albion, Arthur felt, was far more pompous than she had any right to be. Just because Arthur may or may not spoil her bloody rotten with fish and cream and toys and beds and scratching posts and… well, perhaps he ought to dial the pampering down just a tad, maybe (or so he thought so every time, though, of course, had never acted upon it).

Lady Albion had been nipping at Arthur’s sweatered arms and trousered legs for the past many hours, mewling and wrapping her fluffy ginger tail about his calves and tickling his heels when they brushed. 

Albion had an intuition, Arthur had discovered, for knowing what moods had Arthur at his most generous. Now, by all standards, his generosity for sweet Albion knew no bounds. She had realized, through trial and error, that if Arthur were to order food then proceed to arrange it in one of his own dishes and stick it in the oven, they were having guests. And not just any guests, but guests that Arthur didn’t want to frighten away with his sincere but utterly vile cuisine.

This meant that 1) Albion was getting something other than cat food, 2) that she wouldn’t feel guilty about ignoring the “offerings” Arthur left of his kitchen experiments, and 3) that she might get a pet from not two, but four hands. This, Albion had learned, was a rare event and that her best behavior was required in order to keep Arthur’s confidence up as he waited for his guests.

At exactly 8:00 p.m., the doorbell chimed. Arthur started, turning away from where he was fussing at the mirror with his lapels and made a quick shuffle to the entrance, almost tripping over Albion in his haste. “Coming!”  
Outside the door, Alfred cradled a box of liquor chocolates and a purring ball in his arms. The door opened and Arthur smiled shyly, stepping aside and allowing entry. 

“Hey! How’re ya, man?” The ball of fluff, smelling the presence of another of its kind, leapt from its owner's arms and pounced across the room to start sniffing at a minutely discomforted Albion.  
Arthur took the box with a curious smile, lifting the lid and peeking inside, “Quite well, thank you.”

Albion made a distressed hiss and ran to hide behind Arthur’s shoe, seeming to glare at Alfred’s cat who had begun licking his leg, unconcerned with the rejection.

Alfred laughed at the scene, walking across the room to crouch and lift his large cat, “Sorry ‘bout that. Tony’s just trying to be friendly.” He booped the cat’s nose with his own. Tony sneezed cutely and began squirming until he was released.  
Arthur smiled at the scene and led Alfred to the kitchen, setting the open chocolate box on the marble counter, “He’s sweet; and real, I take it?”

“Uh-huh. Got ‘im two years back at a carnival down in Florida. Poor thing was sweatin’ to death.” Albion had parted from Arthur’s side and wandered over to sniff at Alfred’s bare ankle, still wary of the giant creature currently exploring the thick carpet by the fireplace with its paws.

Alfred looked down, “Well aren’t you a sweetie,” he looked to Arthur who was checking the food in the oven (it was already made but Alfred didn’t need to know that), “I’m assuming she’s real as well? She seems a bit too moody for an animatronic.”

“Yes, a Scottish Fold. Albion’s been with me since last year and dare I say grown rather bratty about it,” Arthur looked pointedly to the cat.

Alfred yelped when Albion dragged her rough tongue along his skin, chuckling when she jumped away. “Yes, I think I’m seeing your point!”

All things considered, Arthur was feeling like a pretty confident host. Alfred was relaxing company and the cats provided an adorable and homely distraction when conversation fell short. Thinking back on his nights with Francis he realized that there may have been more awkward moments than he’d originally perceived. When compared to the easy atmosphere with Alfred, Arthur internally cringed at some of the instances when background music just wasn’t enough to conceal the deafening silence between him and Francis.

Yes, Arthur decided. This was very much preferable.

“And then,“ Alfred babbled, giggles bubbling up as he tries to get the punchline out, “he turns to be and goes ‘How about a bloody mary?’ Ha!”

Alfred didn’t seem overly concerned with Arthur’s bland response of, “Oh.”

Over dinner (a hearty meatloaf with sautéed vegetables and sparkling water) they spoke of their work and fed the cats who were busy socializing under the table. Albion had grown comfortable with Tony and allowed the Maine Coon to paw at her tail. However, they did not share when given their respective owners’ scraps.

Alfred was a nice chap, if a bit loud. He was certainly open (perhaps too open) and reminded Arthur, oddly enough, of a plane. Magnificent to see up close with his pearly teeth and expressive personality, distracting even if you weren’t particularly close by, and with a great potential for crashing.

This last discovery was later on in the evening.

Now, the night had started off quite well. There was a charming, tense chemistry between them when they talked. They had their opinions. And... not all of them aligned.  
“Why do you Brits have all those extra ‘u’s?”

Arthur looked up from where he was coddling Tony in his lap, scowling, “Because it’s English. Why couldn’t you Americans have just preserved the language as it was? It’s been butchered.”

Alfred blew on the mug of mocha cradled in his palms, the little marshmallows bobbing. He raised three fingers, leaning back against the couch where he sat on the carpet, “Well, for starters, America English makes way more sense. Second, we needed to get rid of you’ limies,” Arthur blanched at the awful pun, fake gagging. Alfred ignored him. “And three: the, uh, well the oldie newspapers used to make people pay by the letter, so unnecessary letters were cut out and stuff.”

“So what you’re saying is that you changed a literal language… because you colonists were cheap?”

Alfred shrugged his broad shoulders, “Meh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apart for the images that I will include in the next chapter, this story is on a permanent hiatus. I feel really bad, but writer block has attacked my brain for this story and I feel that the characterization is kinda flat :/  
> BUT! I did enjoy writing the parts that I did get to.  
> and PLEASE, leave a comment. I'm kinda new to this whole fanfiction writi8ng business but it makes me incredibly happy to get feedback from readers.  
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


	4. Drawings!




End file.
